


finer things

by colectiva



Category: Open Heart (Visual Novels)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Vaginal Fingering, purely self indulgen content, some drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:29:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29587962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colectiva/pseuds/colectiva
Summary: Josephine doesn’t know much about the finer things, but when it comes to Dr Harper Emery...
Relationships: Harper Emery/Main Character (Open Heart)
Kudos: 3





	finer things

**Author's Note:**

> i’m so angry still, so i have to McGyver my own happiness. this is barely edited. pb, just give us harper as an LI. Or a wild idea, just let her be and let her be respected. Stop giving us sh*tty woman-pitted-against-woman storylines.  
> anyway, i said. what i said with this fic.

**Scotch burns her tongue.**

She’s never tried scotch before, never been partial to it. Declined every time it’s been offered. But tonight she needs something to steel her nerves.

Josephine has been relentlessly teased about it before: from her own mentor to her oldest friends—called her... _jaded..._ to the ‘finer things in life’. 

Clothes, food, drink, books without the medical lingo— anything with a glitter, a flare, some _drama_.

There’s never been an appeal, a draw, a call to dabble and ‘indulge’ in those little luxuries that life has to offer. 

But Harper carries it _everywhere_. 

In the sewn-in seams of her tailored dresses. Perfect, uniformed stitchings. Her work pumps and flats, patent leather, and notoriously black— unscuffed, immaculate, good enough to lick. The designer bag she wears slung over a shoulder as she strides through the doors first thing in the morning. 

_Strides_.

Never _walks_. Never _treads_. Never... _jogs_ to an emergency. 

A forceful, commanding, sure thing— Josephine could waste hours studying her glide. 

Nails. Manicured, _short_ , dulled at their edges, but glossy. _Feminine._ And Josephine swallows down another sip of hot scotch— 10-year-old Ardbeg. Amber, malty, and _strong_.

It leaves a lingering burn, down the back of her throat, in her gut where her nerves jumble together. Causes her to laugh airier, avoid all eye contact, sit straighter...stiffer.

Harper. As fine as this scotch, as the pristine rug they’re sitting on (sifting through years of casework), as opulent as the fireplace roaring across from them.

Her home. Lavish, grand, all windows and bright, sleek surfaces. The view of the city keeps distracting her, keeps her from letting her eyes wander up the length of Harper’s legs, curled to the side.

Even the way Harper removed her heels, one at a time. A tiny wiggle of heel, toe, heel, toe, before flexing her ankles with a deep, happy sigh. Like sinking into a hot bath at the end of a long and cold day. A sophisticated small sound Josephine wants to pull for herself. 

The muscles in her calves strained for a minute, slacked, and that’s all it took for Josephine’s mouth to go dry. She watches them tuck to Harper’s side as she props an elbow onto the couch’s seat behind them, white and flawless as everything else in her apartment...her life.

Josephine thinks she might be marring everything with only her presence, tries to take up as little space as possible. Maybe this will make the clean-up easier for Harper once she’s gone and they’ve called it a night.

“Done with this stack, Josie?”

 _Josie_.

She calls her _Josie_. No one’s ever bothered giving her a nickname before. Made her softer, less thornier— made her _bijou_. Something worthy of being _cosseted_. 

And Josephine always answers swiftly to it, _always swiftly_ , in fear that if she might hesitate to respond to it— to acknowledge it as _yes, that’s me, I’m Josie_ — it could be taken away as quickly as it was awarded.

Their hands brush again, for the hundredth time that evening, and Josephine is alight. A million little forest fires dancing over her skin, tugging that _something_ that sparks in her belly every time she’s alone with Harper like this. She wishes she would have a better handle on it by now, it’s been _years_ , and— this? This is embarrassing. 

So, _Josie’s_ attention flitters to the view again where city lights dazzle and to the ominous sprawl of the Charles River. Long, winding, disappearing into the night, under the Leverett, also glittering with weary travellers’ lights. 

“Stunning,” her tongue, still burning from top-shelf liquor, is loose.

Harper hums in response and there’s a flutter of paper. “I’ve seen prettier.”

Josie’s heart follows the paper’s suit, jumping in her chest, finding Harper’s brown eyes filled with roguish light. They flit up at her briefly.

Harper returns to the old patient record in front of her— another flutter...maybe the paper...maybe Josie’s heart. 

She should shut up. She should pack up her things and call it a night. Call a car to take her home where she can lock herself up in her room, and scream into a pillow after rehashing their conversations a masochistic amount of times. 

Instead, she throws back the rest of the scotch. 

_Oh,_ something else to be embarrassed about because Harper raises a beautiful eyebrow at her.

Right. Of course. These things are meant to be _savoured_ not... _devoured_.

And, _oh god_ , now she’s thinking about being savoured and devoured. Yes, this is why she doesn’t dabble in _fineness_. 

Burns, burns, burns, all the way down. Eye-watering, nose-stinging, ears ringing. Burns.

But it’s Harper’s attention, the eye contact, the small quirk of her _beautiful, beautiful_ lips that makes Josie scorch.

“That good?” 

Josie couldn’t provide an informed answer if she tried. 

“I’ve tasted better,” is what her tongue (burning, burning, burning) decides on. 

More raised eyebrows, and her mouth twisting at a corner (a dimple), a smirk that says: _I doubt that_.

The patient file lies forgotten on her lap, and Josie wishes she had materialised into this life as the tree that would one day be brutally chopped, hacked away at, processed through chemicals and tight packaging...just for the shot to one day land on the part of Harper’s smooth thigh. 

Her breathing is fickle, jumping between shallow and no breaths at all. The intensity of Harper’s gaze, trailing over Josie’s face, head tilting into her hand (still propped on the cushion behind her) sparks that thing in her again and Josie shifts in her relegated spot. 

The crackle between them has nothing to do with the wood-burning fire. She wishes she could put that thing out, there’s enough heat crawling up her body, her arms, without it. 

Harper closes the document on her lap and lets it slide away. _Even the movement of the ugly, ratty manila folder giving way is elegant_.

She picks up her own drink she’s been nursing, leisured, throughout the night. Josephine swallows, watching Harper’s lips meet the glass again— lipstick fading on the rim. 

It's quick. A drop of scotch, maybe, smoothing down Harper’s throat before she pulls it away. Another one of those happy sighs. She looks at the glass, smiles, and then extends it to Josie.

“Things like this...they must be…” Her eyes find Josie’s, another secretive smile. “ _Appreciated_. There should be no haste in the pleasurable things life has to offer. Now, you try it.”

Josie makes to grab the glass but, with a slow twist of her wrist, Harper turns the tumbler. The side of the mark from her painted-mouth faces Josie. She knows that colour too well, seen her apply it in the bathroom, a shiny gold tube that says: _Birkin Brown_. Even learning the name of the famed shade that sits on her lips all day is enough to—

She accepts it, fingers brushing once more, and tries not to shake. _Don’t shake, don’t shake, don’t shake_. It would just be one more thing to scream about in her pillow tonight. 

Lips meet the warm spot of the glass, the lingering cream once applied on Harper’s mouth, and Josie thinks she could get drunk on this sensation alone. She could put the glass down, without a drag of scotch, lick her lips and say: _The best I’ve ever tasted_.

But she drinks a drop, mimics the way Harper barely let the spotless crystal tip-up completely. She’s about to resign herself to further humiliating herself as a philistine because she thinks there’s nothing in a drop that can’t be tasted in a mouthful but…

The smokiness of its smell takes its time meeting the smidge of amber that is...sweeter now that she thinks about it. But there’s something else there.

Harper waits, expectantly eyeing the junior fellow’s reaction.

“What do you taste?”

 _You_.

“Oh, uh…” Josie looks into the glass, swirls it as if that would give her the correct answer. Because she wants to be correct. She wants to provide a _commendable_ response that would warrant Harper’s approval. It makes her shift again. “Sort of...sweet? And uh…”

“Heat?”

Their gazes meet and there’s a beat of silence, a pause while Josie’s heart does that thing that makes her upper arms warm. 

“Yeah, a bit of...heat,” Josie swallows nervously and licks her lips. Heart-stopping when Harper notices the action, eyes hooding and smile faltering. “I can taste the...heat.”

Harper reaches out, takes the glass again, and more fingers grazing. “Sometimes it tastes better,” and she takes a deeper pull from it, Josie watching helplessly as Harper’s tongue traces the outline of her cupid's bow. “Like this.”

Their faces are a whisper from touching. Harper leans in further, eyes flickering between Josie’s eyes (fixed on Harper’s wet, inviting mouth) and the parted, wanting, of her lips. 

Words. Words elude her. They’re a whisper from a touch and if Josie can come up with a word (any word will do, really) that she can whisper then...her words would meet Harper and—

Soft. A merciful press of mouth on mouth. 

If the scotch is playing with her mind, she wills it to keep making her its fool because she’s kissing Harper, or Harper is kissing her, or they’re kissing the other.

Scotch burns her tongue. 

A different burn, a scorching and relentless searing burn in her mouth. Harper parts her lips, with an expertise that makes Josie start trembling. A good kind of tremor, where nervousness pales under elation. 

Harper holds her face, cups it in her hands, keeps her steady— sets the pace. _Slow_. Very slow.

 _Appreciated_. There should be no haste in the pleasurable things life has to offer.

Appreciated. Josie’s kiss is being _appreciated_ by Harper.

The thought makes her whimper, melt under the woman’s touch (now dancing at the back of her neck, bracing the base of her head). The little forest fires are raging against her skin, she feels sunburnt. Harper has singed her.

It spurs on Harper, picks up the pace, leaves a trail of open kisses along her chin and jaw, says against her skin: _you smell divine_.

 _Divine_.

The comment, short and powerful, awakens a hungry need in her. She doesn’t want to be fumbling hands and fingers. She doesn’t want to embarrass herself compared to the balletic manner Harper undoes the buttons of Josie’s shirt. 

But she stumbles, doesn’t know how to work the little clasp at the back of Harper’s dress and apologises. More apologies, more fussy, impatient hands until Harper breaks away and smoothes the hair away from Josie’s face.

“No apologies,” she says firmly, so firm it sends a jolt between Josie’s legs. A rush for _more_ of that— whatever her tone is made out of, Josie needs it again. “We apologise enough on the daily. You’re perfect.”

 _Perfect_.

Like the taut leather of the Hermes bag that clings to her, the countless shiny Jimmy Choos she’s seen in her bedroom’s walkthrough closet, the clean marble surfaces of her kitchen.

 _Perfect_.

Harper treats her with the gentleness and precision of something invaluable. Like she should be placed and reside the rest of her days on the shelves of her awards. 

She would, she would, she would. It’s the only thing that makes sense when Harper unclasps her bra, throws it behind them, and makes circles around a stiffened nipple. Josie’s own hand working Harper’s bra stumbles, gasping at her nimble fingers.

Slanting her mouth over the younger doctor, she brings her up on the couch, crowds her body into the cushions. The same cushions Josie always worries about ruining and opts for the floor every time. 

Harper wants to touch her, wants to gaze at her, take her time with her. Josie doesn’t get the chance to finish undressing Harper, still clad in pretty pastel underwear because— _yes_ , even Harper’s panties and bra are probably La Perla, something that could sit in a museum as an exemplary fashion choice of their time.

To touch the history of Harper’s lace—

But she’s kissing her again, hungrier, the slow pace of her tongue sliding along Josie’s forgotten. She moves into the cradle of her legs, pressing down into Josie, letting her feel the weight of her, her breasts (lavender and cream lace and satin) pressing into the hot flesh of her own. Josie’s licks at her upper lip, sucks at the cupid’s bow— because it is the most perfect thing she’s ever seen. Shot her right through the heart the first time she heard the woman speak, focused on the curve of it. 

Kisses crawl down the column of Josie’s neck, her hips jerking into Harper’s in response, a staggered noise escaping Josie. An apology almost tumbles out before she catches herself and runs a hand down the soft (oh my god, she is _soft_ ) skin of Harper’s arm. Runs it back until it’s behind her neck, keeping her in place _right there_ , at that spot behind her ear. 

She’s noisy. She wants to apologise for being noisy, but Harper doesn’t stop. Instead, she adds teeth to the mix, and a scrape of tongue, fingers _tweaking_ her nipple— free hand holding herself up (because she is soft _and_ strong, and Josie could just disappear into nothing from the image of it). 

A pinch. A pinch at her sensitive peak sends her rutting against the top of Harper’s thigh, and the friction is so good. Josie doesn’t want to stop. 

Maybe she can feel it? Maybe she can feel the wet spot in her ugly greys, meeting her leg again and again? Maybe that’s why Harper smiles against her skin before pressing her thigh into Josie’s seeking touch.

 _“Oh_!”

“That feel good?”

No words, no words, again there are no words. Just the taste of Harper’s shoulder, skin and this morning’s moisturiser— an expensive brand without a doubt— but Josie laps it up. Harper’s earring press into her cheek and wild need ripping through her tells her Josie wants that in her mouth too. 

A whimper. A whimper when Harper pulls back and stares down at Josie in her fevered condition. She must look pathetic, mouth slightly open and taking as many ragged puffs of breaths she can steal (but the air is not as sweet as it was when Harper’s hair was right next to her), and nipples pinched to attention thanks to Harper’s hands.

“You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you,” it’s not a question, but that firmness in her voice is back. Josie preens at the combination, words and sound.

 _Pretty_.

Josie never cared for the word. _Pretty_. What does it even mean? But when it falls, light (yet loaded) from Harper’s mouth, it’s—

She can’t mull over it’s meaning, distracted by the goosebumps erupting over her body. A lone finger draws a line from her sternum, the valley of her breasts, down to her belly button, before hooking into the top of the cotton of her underwear. Her hands grip the couch’s arm behind her head, tighter, tighter. 

The surgeon tugs it over angled knees and off ankles— already forgotten. 

_Pretty. Pretty. She wants to be Pretty for Harper._

As are things in Harper’s life: appreciated, with a slow and measured pace— so is Josie’s naked body. Thighs spread for her, arms up and over, hands clutching onto fabric fibres for dear life, gaze calling to meet Harper’s.

Thumbs brush over nipples, then cups her breasts, watching the way they heave in response. To feel full, complete, in Harper’s hands, there is nothing like it. Then it’s all palms that _glide_ (like the way she takes the corridors: confident, steady) over the soft spot of her ribs, her sides(thumbs over soft stomach), hips, and thighs. 

She thinks she might have to beg, stop the gnawing of her lower lip, and interrupt Harper’s busy, wandering eyes and hands over Josie’s flesh.

But she leans over, and neroli fills the younger doctor’s senses, and Josie waits (terrified to move in hopes she might disrupt the process) and Harper’s hot breath fans over the top of her breast. 

She sucks a nipple into her mouth and Josie loses it. More noise, so much noise, so much of her own voice in this beautiful home— Harper appears to like it because she repeats the action, sucks hard enough to maybe leave a bruise. 

The rush of arousal. Pressing into the top of Harper’s thigh again, she realises there’s no hiding it anymore. Josie jerks her hips, a little more daring, pulls at the back of the surgeon’s bra with intent and purpose.

“I want to,” words. She found words again, albeit tight from her throat between shaky breaths. “I want to touch...you, please.”

Detaching herself, Harper peeks up at the pleading younger doctor and grins slyly, eyes dark and heavy, brings a finger over her lips to silence _words_. 

No words, only sound, got it. 

“Later. There will be plenty of time for that, _bijoux_ ,” she says sweetly, so sweet Josie needs it on her tongue. “Just enjoy yourself for now.”

Josie kisses her finger, makes to lick it, because Harper’s skin is _addicting_. And there’s nothing in this world like the taste of her mouth, her shoulder. So, maybe her hands are just the same. 

A part of her, late at night when lascivious thoughts enter her bedroom window and creep under the covers with her, has imagined the taste of her.

So if her lipstick, her tongue, her shoulder, have tasted like earthly delights...those private moments with her hands between her thighs at 2am don’t hold a flame to the reality of _Later_.

And Harper’s mouth descends on her again, swirling tongue and hot breaths, nose bumping on her way down, right over her clenching belly when teeth graze. Maybe her heart (thundering, beating, slamming) met her mouth in the second her lips brushed past her ribs. 

Hot desire in her belly swirls around and begs for something. She doesn’t know what exactly yet. Just something _good_ , and maybe if Josie adds a _please_ at the end it might happen.

There’s enough room on the couch for the both of them, a sprawling L-shaped design that allows Harper to nestle between Josie’s legs. She brings one leg over her shoulder, the other above Josie’s hipbone, pinning it in place and reaching to tease a pert peak. 

And then that happy sigh. 

The pulse of breath meeting _wet, wet, wet_ folds— Josie twitches, dazed that this is happening, _really happening_. That she could be worthy of that sound, that sigh, which only spurs on her own little keen.

Harper. Beautiful, regal, _statuesque._ Poised. Poised between _her_ legs and lets out a content noise. _Hers_ . Her Josie, her _bijoux_ , _hers_.

Tongue. Her tongue has been amazing against hers, against her neck, against her tits but—

“ _Ohmygod,_ ” a rushed flurry of words (more noise than discernable words) as Harper’s tongue parts her slick folds.

A deep, elated, satisfied, back-arching: “ _Yes_ …” much like Harper’s sigh, but sounds like there should be a _finally_ at the end of it.

Just one lick. One taste. How can Josie already feel like the burning on her skin, ceaseless from the start, is going to consume her already?

Slow, tantalizing circles around her clit. Tasting her. Savouring her. Like she’s as fine as 10-year-old scotch.

Josie’s hand clasps on to the one Harper has at her breast, still tweaking, pinching, rolling. Holds onto it as a wave of rare bliss works through her. Her brain is fuzzy, going muted in certain parts, blurring out anything that isn’t the magic Harper is working on her. She meets Harper’s eyes, intense and knowing. 

She knows, _ohmygod._ She knows how good she is at this and she’s going to send her careening at an embarrassing speed. Harper brings her closer to her mouth, using the free hand from the arm snaked under her thigh.

The pressure. The sudden nearness of her hot mouth, but slow working tongue. Josie doesn’t know how much longer she can hold on. 

It dips, stiff, from her clit to her entrance. Her head angles to sink her pink tongue into her, unhurried, gentle, again and again, before swiping it back to her clit. Taking it into her mouth where she can swirl over it lazily. 

Her arms, her back, her neck— fire, she’s on fire. Like a cheap sparkler on the Fourth of July, burning fast, fast, fast and too bright. 

“ _Harper_ ,” she gets to say her name. She gets to say it with all that desire and possessiveness. 

“ _Harper_ ,” she repeats it, just because she can, with sweetness and thanks. 

And then a gasping-cry. “ _H_ _arper_!”

Harper’s free hand, between her thighs. A finger, then two, and sliding in and out of her, growing impossibly wetter. Her mouth on her sensitive bud is no longer tormenting her with little flicks. Instead, laps at her hungrily— demanding. 

Like that cheap sparkle, she never stood a chance when thrown into a raging firestorm. 

She burns, hotter, hotter, and then combusts, jerking her hips into Harper’s lips and hand. Nails sinking into the pretty fabric of the couch, probably leaving a tear behind as she comes so fiercely into Harper’s mouth. Pulsing, pulsing all over, she moans her name again.

She helps Josie come down with tentative swirling licks, and lets her fingers slow, but never stop. Until there’s that little twitch that tells her _a lot, a lot, less, please_ and pulls away.

Josie’s brain is swimming still, and through the haze, she reveres Harper on her knees, between her own— _Flawless_. How could she just finish doing _that_ and still look impeccable? 

“You’re gorgeous,” it’s not the scotch— it’s the orgasm, the gooey feeling deep in her muscles. Harper smiles mid-swipe at her mouth then brushes a hand up the inside of Josie’s inner-thigh that causes a ripple of effect.

 _More_. 

An ember quietly smoulders inside her, encouraging her to follow that line of thought. Growing stronger, warmer, as she traces the lines of Harper’s body, her cleavage, the lace, the evident wet patch poorly disguised between her strong legs. 

_She wants you too_ , a small voice tells her.

Before Josie can make a move, bring her back down on top of her, apologise for the tear in the couch, and sink her fingers past the pretty, pretty lace— Harper stands up. 

“I know,” she says, an arm reaches around her, unhooking the bra. She begins to walk away, leaving Josie scrambling on the couch, gazing at Harper longing as she heads towards the bedroom. 

Her bra falls to the floor (an ache blooms between Josie’s legs again) and the smooth expanse of her back is in full view. Harper stops and hooks her thumbs into either side of the lavender and cream lace of her panties. 

_Gone_. Kicked to the corner— already forgotten.

She says over her shoulder:

“Why don’t you come tell me more about it?”


End file.
